The Story of Us Now
by Linnea Bjornberg
Summary: Chapter one summary: It's been nearly three years since Sherlock jumped off the roof at Bart's and John is a broken man. Things have gotten so bad for John that he can barely will himself to get out of bed in the morning. Sherlock, still in hiding, feels incrediby guilty and misses his blogger terribly. The detective wants to return but must first rid the world of Sebastian Moran.


"Sherlock!" John called the familiar name as he sprang up in his bed. He was covered in sweat and his breathing was labored. He sat a moment in the dark, taking time to realize how completely alone he was. Sherlock wasn't there and he never would be. The detective would never return to the flat again. He was dead. The man that he loved so much that it hurt, was never coming back. The two of them were supposed to be together until the end of days, Holmes and Watson, Sherlock and John. John kept having nightmares about the other man, and every night they got worse. John hadn't gotten a full night of sleep in months and over the past few years he was put on medication to help with his depression. The meds were bollocks, they didn't help one tiny bit. John buried his face in his hands, tears forming in his eyes. "Sherlock…" He muttered. "Sherlock…"

John's mind drifted back to when Sherlock was still alive. He thought Sherlock was utterly insane when they first met, but after getting to know him a little more, the doctor realized that Sherlock was brilliant. Soon enough that admiration turned into physical attraction, then from there it evolved into something John liked to call "love". Though John had realized that he was in love with the Consulting Detective, those three simple words remained unsaid, over time Sherlock seemed to reciprocate those feelings. They kissed, held each other, and on occasion, John felt brave enough to whisper sweet words to Sherlock. Now all of that was gone, leaving every day with Sherlock a memory. John had never been brave enough to say "I love you." and now he would never have the chance again.

He thought back to St. Bart's, the day Sherlock killed himself. John had been fooled so cleverly that he actually left Sherlock by himself, and he felt so bloody horrible. He should have done something, he would have done anything to keep Sherlock from jumping off that bloody roof. Moriarty framed Sherlock and his reputation as a detective was more than likely ruined, but John knew that they would have gotten by. They would have been all right, the two of them together. John had never once thought Sherlock would kill himself, it was unbelievable. He wouldn't have bought it in a million years if Sherlock hadn't been so cruel as to do it right in front of John. John could hear Sherlock's voice as they spoke on the phone, when John was looking up at Sherlock and Sherlock was looking down at John, the way his voice wavered, the way it shook. He could envision the scene down to every exact detail and it nearly killed him every time. The memory haunted the ex-Army Doctor every day of his life, every second.

These thoughts undid John completely, all of the emotions he had been holding back were suddenly pouring out all at once. John trembled in the dark of his bedroom letting out choked sobs, crying for everything that he had lost, everything he had been through, crying for Sherlock.

After a while, John had willed himself to calm down. He flopped back down onto his pillow and wiped the remaining tears from his eyes, he looked over at his clock. It was just past 2 AM and now, as tired as he was, did not want to go back to sleep. He felt sluggish and slow, he didn't want to move. He wanted tea, the comforting scent would help alleviate his sadness temporarily, but he didn't want to get up.

John huffed and took in deep breaths. His breathing was still a little shaky, but this was a vast improvement from his state five minutes ago. He stared up at the ceiling in the dark, the moonlight cast a very faint light in the room, just enough for John to make out white color of the ceiling. He lay there for what seemed like an eternity before he decided to drag himself downstairs to get a cup of tea. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, flicking on his bedside lamp. He stood up, struggling to balance and grabbed his cane. With a loud groan he started his trip down the stairs, attempting not to slip and fall with a misplacement of his cane in the dark.

After John had fixed the tea he sat down at the kitchen table for a bit staring blankly at nothing in particular. He felt numb, completely numb. He didn't want to do anything now. Nothing at all. John rubbed his forehead before running his hands through his shaggy sand-colored hair, sighing heavily. He looked at the clock on the stove, now it was past three. "Here's to another sleepless night." John mumbled, taking his tea and heading back up to his room.

Closing the door, John slumped down onto his bed and sniffed at the tea. The tea was meant to be relaxing and was very aromatic, smelling of herbs and spices all combined perfectly. He took a sip of the steaming liquid and it tasted as good as it smelled, not that John could really appreciate it. If Sherlock was here with him, the two of them could be sitting here enjoying tea together. John often thought back to those nights where both he and Sherlock would just sit in bed, they wouldn't speak, no. It would just be him and Sherlock enjoying each other's company and tea. John thought on those nights, he thought of why Sherlock would do something so simple, something that must have been so boring to him, with John. He always seemed like he enjoyed it, but John was never sure if he actually did. John certainly enjoyed it, he was always happy when Sherlock was near him.

John took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked over at his clock again and decided that it was much too late, now early, for him to even attempt to sleep. This was the second time this week, and John wouldn't be able to handle going to work this time around. Reluctantly, he grabbed his cell phone and opened a new message for Sarah. Hopefully she would understand that John just couldn't bring himself to work that day. He sent the message, knowing she would get it when she woke up in a few hours. John thought again for a few moments and decided a phone call later that morning would also be needed. John took another sip of his tea and set it down on the bedside table before he went to lay down again and stare at the ceiling once more.

Sherlock's whereabouts were still unknown to most people. Either because they believed he was dead, or they thought he had actually faked it, or they simply chose to think he never existed and the whole Sherlock Holmes phenomenon was just a ploy for the media and people involved to gain publicity and profit.

Though he knew it was necessary to save him, leaving John was one of the hardest things Sherlock had ever done. Living life knowing that he was unable to contact John again over the time space of three years – since he was planning on coming back - was incredibly difficult, but more than likely, it was more difficult for John who thought Sherlock was gone for good. Sherlock, surprisingly, understood enough about human emotions to realize that it broke John. He noticed it when he had watched John at his grave. It was the last time Sherlock saw John; alone, crying, then reverting back to his army training with a hard and stern face. The words John voiced at that time echoed in Sherlock's ears, don't be dead.

Sherlock wished earnestly that he could return to John, but he had to take care of the snipers before he could even think of returning. The process of disassembling Moriarty's web was a long and slow one. Sherlock had to be slow, take his time. He had to make sure no one he cared about found out he was still alive, aside from Mycroft. His brother, after all, was the British government and had offered his assistance to Sherlock. Even with the help of Mycroft and his secret service, getting the last of Moriarty's army was an evasive goal. They were so close, only one sniper remained. Sebastian Moran. Though Mycroft had been working to locate Sebastian for months, his whereabouts were still unknown.

The consulting detective had rented a flat not far from Baker Street in Westminister, he was living under an alias, dressing in different clothing. It was unbelievably dull and frustrating, there was nothing to think about. No cases, no science experiments, no John.

Sherlock smiled weakly, remembering his times with John. They were nothing more than memories now. He remembered the face John would make whenever he praised Sherlock, exclaiming "Fantastic!" or some other English variation of the word; their first case together, the way John's lips felt against his own, how John's hand felt perfectly into his. If he was with John right now, Sherlock imagined, he would be curled up next to John on the other man's bed. Sherlock wouldn't speak and neither would John. The two of them would simply lay there in silence, admiring each other's presence.

Sherlock had never exactly been romantic, but now he wished had been. Neither he nor John had ever uttered those three precious to the other, but John was always the one speaking charming things to Sherlock. Not once could Sherlock muster up the courage to return those words, and he regretted it horribly. At this time, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to hold John again… To tell John how he felt.

Mycroft had been keeping up on John, his medical records, his bank statements, everything. Occasionally He would visit John to see how he was doing, they would go out for tea and then Mycroft would report back to Sherlock. John had started seeing that blasted therapist again and was on depression medication; Sherlock felt awful after hearing about it. His "death" caused the one person he really cared about so much pain. Even though he knew how much pain John was in, Sherlock was unaware that just down the street, John was awake and crying for him.

Sherlock rose from his seat and began to pace around the flat, he was so incredibly uninterested with everything. The man didn't even want to sleep, and he had nothing else he could do. He glanced over at the clock on the side-table. It was almost 4 in the morning, and Sherlock didn't feel tired at all. He never felt tired when John was on his mind. He needed something to do, anything, to quench the boredom. He couldn't play his violin. Not here. The people who lived around him wouldn't tolerate it at this hour, not the way Mrs. Hudson and John did.

Sherlock settled and decided he would go to his bedroom and lay down. He changed out of his day clothes into something more comfortable before sitting down on the edge of the mattress. Sherlock picked up his phone and thumbed across the keypad to compose a new message.

Anything new on Moran? -SH

He sent the message to his brother and shoved the mobile under the pillow. Hopefully Sebastian would be located and taken out soon, then everyone would be out of harm's way. Then Sherlock would be able to return to Baker Street. There were plenty of times Sherlock had thought about going home to John, revealing himself to the doctor. Things would go back to normal, wouldn't they? Eventually, at least. Sherlock would have cases again, John would get better, and he would have his blogger back by his side. Sherlock couldn't go back though. Not yet. Not until he was sure John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were completely safe from Moriarty's web.

Sherlock yawned and positioned himself comfortably on the bed, he figured he'd try and get some sleep. It had been a couple of days since the last time he had gotten any rest. He rolled over on his side and glared at the wall intently, so focused it probably could have started a fire. It took a while, Sherlock had no idea how long, but the consulting detective fell asleep peacefully. He didn't even wake up when his mobile vibrated underneath the pillow:

We've got him. –Mycroft Holmes

The return had been awkward, confusing, emotional, things that Sherlock was absolutely horrible with. Sherlock had returned in the middle of the night one week after Mycroft sent the message alerting his brother of Sebastian's capture. Only when Sherlock was positive the sniper was dead, did he return.

Sherlock crept up the stairs to 221B quietly, it was almost 1 o' clock in the morning and John was most likely sleeping right now. The detective was too impatient to wait until morning, of course, and hurried home to Baker Street as soon as Sebastian was gone for good. Now he could see John again. It was safe. John was safe, Mrs. Hudson was safe, Lestrade was safe… Sherlock was ecstatic. His boredom was finally about to be alleviated. He would be able to compose on the violin again, conduct experiments again, solve cases again. Be with John again.

He pulled the key to the flat out of his pocket and gently turned the lock, stepping inside and flicking on the lights. The flat looked nearly the same, not a single thing was out of place. Even Sherlock's skull was still on the fireplace mantle. The man had never been sentimental, not even in the slightest, but right now an overwhelming joy came over him. He tore off his scarf and coat and hung them up before hurrying up the stairs to John's room. Sherlock hesitated in the dark outside of John's bed room. His hand was gripped tightly around the doorknob and he stared down at it, unsure of whether he should enter or not. He was feeling a little nervous, unsurprisingly. Sherlock was finally returning after three years, he was expecting John to be upset with him at the very least. It was very understandable.

Sherlock turned the knob slowly and looked into the darkness, his eyes adjusted quickly to the new sight in front of him. John was curled up in bed, the blankets pulled up high to his ears. His brow was furrowed and it looked like he wasn't having a good dream. Sherlock took in what was before him dearly, it had been years since he saw John in person. He walked closer, slowly, so they floor wouldn't creak. He knelt down at the side of the bed to get a better look at John.

Sherlock inched his face closer to John's, comparing the man to what he used to look like. John was still incredibly handsome in the consulting detective's eyes, but something was off... He looked different. The doctor had very defined worry lines etched into his face, and dark circles under his eyes. He looked very stressed and worried. His skin had gotten paler and it looked like he had lost some weight. John looked broken. This, Sherlock knew, was all his fault. He frowned at John, Sherlock felt horrible. He felt sorry. If he could, Sherlock would just sweep the man in front of him up in his arms and hold him. Hold him until every broken piece of him was fixed, healed.

Slowly, Sherlock reached a hand to John's cheek and cupped it gently, running his thumb across the skin. He smiled weakly. "John..." He whispered, his voice almost silent. Sherlock watched John carefully, making sure his touch was just heavier than a feather. "John, I'm home." He whispered again.

John shifted slightly, his chin moved up a bit and his eyes barely fluttered open. "Who's there?" He asked, his voice dripping with confusion. John propped himself up on his elbows and rubbed at his eyes, trying to gain better focus on the man in front of him. The man in front of him was an eerie apparition, a dead man, Sherlock. John closed his eyes once more and shook his head. "Another dream..." He sighed and went to lay back down, biting his lip. He must be going mad, he thought, absolutely insane. The ex-army doctor could have sworn that Sherlock had touched him, he felt the heat of his fingers on his cheek. It felt real.

Sherlock flinched back at John's conclusion that he was just dreaming again. "You're not dreaming, John! I'm really here!" he exclaimed, reaching out for John again, this time taking the other man's hand into his own. It still fit as perfectly as it always had. "Believe me."

John tore his hand away from Sherlock's and flicked on the lamp by his bedside. When he looked down the other man was still there, looking up at him. Sherlock hadn't vanished, at least not yet. John looked at Sherlock carefully, taking in every detail of his being. He looked almost the same, but seemed slightly thinner and his hair was styled differently. It was still a dark mess of curls, but something about it was different. It seemed shorter. The way he was dressed was also different. Instead of wearing his usual suit pants, he wore jeans. His shirt was also looser fitting, still a dress-shirt, but not skin tight.

If John was imagining Sherlock, he had never looked like this before. Not once had John ever thought Sherlock would dress like this, so casually. There was no way this could be a work of his imagination, now. He took Sherlock's hand back in his. It was warm, trembling a bit. Was Sherlock nervous?

"I'm most likely going mad," John breathed. "But this better be real." He released Sherlock's hand and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Sherlock backed up toward the wall, giving John some leg room. "This is real." He reassured, looking the other man over once more. He looked so much worse in the light, the dark circles were worse than he had originally thought, his hair light gray in most areas. "I know sorry won't even begin to fix things, John." He started.

John held his hand up to signal Sherlock to be quiet. He stood up silently and demanded that Sherlock do the same. "Stand up." He was frowning, he was angry. A whole array of emotions were coursing through him at the moment, but the one most prevalent was anger. The doctor was well aware of what he was about to do; it's not like he had never done it before.

Sherlock nodded and obeyed silently. He stood square in front of John observing him, deducing him. John was very worked up, confused, angry... Angry. Very angry. Sherlock braced himself for the worst, and within seconds he was delivered an incredibly painful blow to the face. He toppled backwards, his eyes clenched shut, fingers gently feeling at the wound. John had once again avoided his teeth and nose. Somebody loves you. Sherlock almost smiled after remembering the first time John had punched him, but looked up at John seriously, Sherlock was at a loss for what to say, he was never good with emotions. Especially handling them.

"You bastard!" John bellowed. "What on earth were you thinking?" He dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock, who was still down on the floor, and took him by the shoulders. "Do you have any idea at all what you've put me through?" A knot was growing in the back of John's throat now, the anger was starting to fade out. "Not only me, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade?" John's grip on Sherlock's shoulders tightened. "Lestrade has been blaming himself for your death since you jumped off that bloody hospital! He's been beating himself up over it for years now you tosser!"

The detective stared at John and searched for something appropriate to say. So far he was getting at nothing, he was clueless. John's grip on his shoulders was firm and tight, so much it almost hurt. Sherlock at this point figured that John would actually feel better if he beat him up. Sherlock would let him, too. It was the least he could do. He was taken aback by the statement about Lestrade. Sherlock had never been particularly angry with Lestrade, just frustrated by how it seemed no one believed in him. At one point Sherlock had been terrified because he thought John didn't believe him.

Moriarty had caused everyone so much pain.

John swallowed back the lump in his throat and tried to suppress tears that were more than inevitable now. He shook his head again and gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Are you just going to sit there?" He asked. "I won't hit you again," John reassured. "I just want to hear your voice now, Sherlock..." John was going to start crying now, he was surprised by how quickly he changed from being furious to being relieved and happy enough to cry. Sherlock was alive, he was home.

"I- I'm sorry..." Sherlock finally managed to say. "I'm so sorry, John. I should have told you." He shifted uncomfortably, lifting his hands up to John's, taking the other man's hands in his own. "I'll explain everything to you tomorrow. I promise." He looked at John, his lips were quivering, the man was about to cry. John was going to cry for Sherlock. This was the last thing Sherlock had wanted to happen, he had never wanted John to cry, especially because of him.

Tears began to stream down John's face and he took a deep breath. "John, please," Sherlock ran his thumb soothingly over the top of John's hand. "Forgive me." He whispered. "I'm so sorry." Sherlock repeated again. "Please forgive me."

John looked down at his hands that were tangled in Sherlock's, "Of course I forgive you, you bloody idiot!" he cried. "You're home. You're alive." A choked sob escaped John's lips. "That's all that matters, Sherlock." John leaned forward a bit, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's chest. "I missed you so much. You don't even know how badly." He continued to cry, not tears of sadness now, but tears of joy. Sherlock was back by his side, it was almost too good to be true.

Sherlock released John's hands and threw his arms around John to hold him close. "I do know, John," he rested his head atop the doctor's. "because I missed you horribly." Sherlock hesitated for a few moments, then placed a light kiss on the top of John's head. "Everything is so dull without cases and experiments, but John, without you it was unbearable."

"W-what?" John asked, confused. "Sherlock, you sound ridiculous..." He nuzzled closer to the detective, breathing him in. He smelled the same, cigarettes and light traces of cologne. The doctor drew in a deep breath and attempted to regain his composure. He still trembled faintly. He was nervous, excited... Anxious. Sherlock was holding him in his arms, it was a feeling almost foreign to John. It had been years now, since the last time the two of them were close like this.

"I care about you more than I thought I would ever care about anyone, John." Sherlock smiled nervously, it felt like a huge weight was being lifted from his shoulders. He pulled away from John a little and looked down at him. John was looking back up at him, his face was full of shock, his eyes were opened wide. Despite the shocked expression, Sherlock could tell that John was eager. It showed in the glow that was emitting from his eyes. He smiled down at the man in his arms and kissed his forehead gently.

"You, are you telling me...?" John clocked his head to the side a little as he struggled to find the words he wanted.

"I love you, John. I always have and I always will." The sentence flowed from the detective's lips effortlessly now.

John blushed lightly, Sherlock had really just admitted to loving someone, loving him. Sherlock saying something like that was more surprising than anything, especially given Sherlock's views on love, or emotions in general. John had always known that Sherlock had feelings for him. It showed in his actions. Not once had either of them spoken their love for each other. It had always been silent admiration, chaste kisses... Now all of a sudden, after three years of not seeing or speaking the other, Sherlock was confessing his love with words.

"Sherlock..." John breathed nervously. Though this whole event was shocking, Sherlock returning out of the blue, Sherlock professing the extent of his feelings for John, John Hamish Watson was indeed thrilled. More than thrilled. "I l-love you too. Hell, I love you, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, throwing his arms around the other man. He kissed Sherlock's cheek. "You're really back..." He said. "It's really you! I missed you so much... I love you, dear God." John's hands trailed up past the nape of Sherlock's neck into his curls. He rested his forehead against Sherlock's and smiled. "I missed you so much... It's really you..." John continued to ramble through his excitement.

Sherlock let a genuine smile creep across his face. "I'm really here." he said the words as though they were a promise. "I missed you too, more than you could possibly know." The detective shifted his position, wrapping one arm around John's back and one under his legs, and scooped John up from the floor to lay him down on the bed. "And now that all of that is out of the way," He shook his head. "you need to go to sleep. You're really tired."

"I'm fine." John insisted, though he was obviously lying. The man was very tired, he had barely slept at all that past week. John was terrified that if he went to sleep, he'd wake up to find Sherlock gone, to find that what was happening right at this moment was a dream.

"We can discuss things later on. We've got all the time in the world now." Sherlock pressed on. He was becoming increasingly aware of John's physical state. The man desperately needed rest, John had obviously been running himself ragged for the few years. It was apparent in the way he looked, and the way he felt. He felt weak and cold in Sherlock's arms.

John frowned and continued to protest. "I don't want to sleep just yet," He started. "you've just gotten back. I want to stay with you." the doctor continued. The thought that this was all very possibly nothing more than a dream kept resounding in the back of his mind. John didn't want to think about it, not now, not ever. If this was all a dream, he never wanted to wake up. If he did, he'd be without Sherlock yet again.

"I'll stay with you." Sherlock promised. "I'll lay down and sleep with you. I'll still be here when you wake up." He saw right through John, it was hardly surprising that the army doctor would feel that way, though. Sherlock kicked off his shoes before laying down beside John. "I promise, John, I won't leave you again."

John looked up at the other man skeptically, but simply nodded, snuggling up close against Sherlock and closing his eyes. Sherlock was warm while pressed closely to John, John lifted his chin and delivered a light kiss along the line of his lover's jaw. He felt Sherlock reach over him to shut off the light and wrap his arms around him.

He felt warm, secure, right. Sherlock was that one missing piece that had been found and fit perfectly once more. If John woke up in the morning to find that such a realistic night had been nothing but a dream, he didn't know what he would do. The man would be completely broken, all his faith would be lost. Now was not the time to think of that, as surreal as everything was, it also felt completely real. Now was a time where John should just forget those possibilities and be happy, jubilant, carefree.

Sherlock pulled the covers up over himself and John and held him close once more, their bodies pressed together through thighs, their arms strewn across each other. It was warm and a little awkward, but it felt so nice. Sherlock smiled to himself before closing his eyes as John had. He didn't want John to worry, he was home now. Home for good. Sherlock would still be right where he was in the morning, right next to John. He never wanted to leave the other man alone ever again, with certain restrictions, of course. Sherlock wanted to make sure John never worried about such things ever again.

The two men lay together silently in the dark, drifting off into peaceful slumber while tangled in each other's arms, and Sherlock was there when John woke up later on. Just as he had promised.

John woke up to Sherlock's eyes staring straight through him, just as always. He'd missed that. He'd missed that a lot. Sherlock looked to him and smiled softly, craning his neck forward to press a gentle kiss to John's lips. John scooted closer to the other man in compliance. "You're still here." The doctor whispered and his lips brushed against Sherlock's.

The other man pulled him close and pressed his lips firmly against John's, pulling back after a few moments. "Of course. I said I would be, John."

Those words filled John with an incredible amount of Joy. He'd fallen asleep and Sherlock was still there when he'd woken up. Now he knew for sure that it was really Sherlock laying down next to him, warm and solid. Not a phantom, or a figment of his imagination. He reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek, running his thumb across the soft skin. Over one of those sharp cheekbones. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, ever changing, then down to his lips, his neck... It was all real. "I'm so glad..." John smiled broadly, so much that his cheeks hurt. "I'm so glad you're back... You're home."

Sherlock simply nodded to the other man. "I'm home," He replied. "and I won't leave you ever again." Sherlock brought his forehead to John's, pressing against the doctor. He was going to do things differently now. Tell John he loved him at every given opportunity, help him, treat him gently. Not as he had done before. Only John, though. Sherlock would only do those things to and for John. Maybe he'd make a good enough cuppa so John wouldn't have to? He'd get his phone from his own pocket, he wouldn't make John do it. He wouldn't leave John alone, he'd always be there. Just for John. "I'll do things differently, alright? I know I've never treated you-"

John hushed Sherlock, pressing his index finger to the consulting detective's lips. "It's all fine, love." He closed his eyes and sighed quietly. "You're perfect just the way you've always been. You don't need to change."

"But I will. I have, John. Just for you, though..." Sherlock continued, closing his eyes as John had. "I love you, and I'll tell you whenever I get the chance to." He smiled.

John looked up at Sherlock and kissed him, pulling the other man's face to his own. "I think I could get used to that, actually..." He joked. "Sounds lovely."

Sherlock smiled, John's breath was hot and tickled his own lips. He kissed John quickly, then again, and again... Again. A series of quick, chaste kisses. "I'll treasure you, John. Appreciate you, keep you safe..." He managed to mutter bits and pieces between each time his lips found the doctor's. His hands trailed down to John's sides, down to his hips, and he pulled John the closest he could be, so his body was flush against Sherlock's own.

"I know..." John breathed out. "I love you, too, Sherlock." Sherlock's body was warm against his own, and he placed his hands against Sherlock's chest, slightly gripping a fist full of the other man's shirt. Sherlock's heart was beating quickly, accelerating. He continued kissing Sherlock, not quick hesitant kisses, but his lips now moved against Sherlock's, the detective mimicking his every move. It was heated, a little desperate. He pulled Sherlock's lower lip between his own, and gently nipped at it. John had never kissed Sherlock like this before, not once had Sherlock ever let him do this. They'd kissed plenty of times before, but never a proper snog.

Sherlock was surprised. Not by the kiss or anything, but by how much he wanted it. He'd never particularly found something like this necessary; just a useless exchange of genetic material. And exchanging saliva was hardly useful. He'd never looked at it from an emotional standpoint, though. But he knew it was something couples do. Always.

He'd kissed John before, plenty of times. Though, he'd never kissed him like this. Late at night, usually... John would snuggle up close to Sherlock and plant kisses along his neck until he reached his ear... Then he'd whisper to him. How beautiful he thought Sherlock was, how brilliant... How he never wanted Sherlock to leave him.

Sherlock had always enjoyed those times. The heat of John's breath, the low tone in his voice. John would have been obviously aroused, but never did he act on it. He respected Sherlock, and he knew that the detective wasn't comfortable with sex, that he didn't want it.

That also surprised Sherlock now. He wanted John close to him, so much that he had pulled the other man flush against himself. As if their bodies had fused together somehow. He'd never found it to be important before. He thought that as long as he and John knew that they loved each other, that it would go without saying. He thought that all that mattered was their knowledge. Now he realized that he'd been wrong. The physical aspect of a relationship was just as important as anything else, and he wouldn't mind complying to the idea.

As John sucked Sherlock's bottom lip and nibbled at it, Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, gasping. He needed a breath or two, and thankfully, John allowed for that. Just as he'd caught his breath, John entered Sherlock's mouth, his tongue probing, tangling along Sherlock's. It was odd, Sherlock thought, but he didn't mind it one bit. He did his best to mirror John's mouth, to move with it. He was a bit clumsy... He had no idea what he was doing, but he was a quick learner. John seemed to be enjoying himself, at least, judging by the muffled sound he was making, the way he was moving against Sherlock.

John moaned quietly into Sherlock's mouth. The kiss was fluid, and slow. Long. Sensual. Sherlock wasn't half bad, either, he thought. A pleasant surprise. He smiled a bit, Sherlock's tongue was running against his own now. The other man breathed into him, a low moan, and John was nearly thrown off. He'd never expected such a thing from Sherlock ever. Not even a kiss like this.

Christ, John was on could nine now. Sherlock was alive, Sherlock had come home to him, and they'd both finally spoken their feelings for each other... Now they were kissing. Actually kissing. It was brilliant, fantastic. Something he'd always wanted, but never had the courage to do. He never wanted to push Sherlock into an uncomfortable situation, he'd wanted to wait until Sherlock at least signaled that it was alright.

And Sherlock had done just that.

That day, Sherlock and John stayed in bed.

They stayed close together, cuddling each other, feeling. They'd exchange heated kisses and explore each other, tracing their fingers along the other's spine, mapping each bump, each scar... Memorizing one another in a way they had never done.

Sherlock would crush his lips onto John's and kiss him with desperate want, climb on top of him, pin him down and hold him. He made love to the doctor slowly, clumsily, but carefully. He'd touch the man as though he were about to break at any moment. It was hardly desperate, but sweet. They both took their time, enjoying each other. Giving themselves to one another completely. As though they hadn't already.

John shifted underneath the detective, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. He never wanted to let go.

Sherlock's hands were warm against his skin, his fingers caressing him gently. Barely grazing the surface. He was nervous, clumsy, but John didn't mind that. All that mattered to him was that it was happening. That he and Sherlock were one. John belonged to Sherlock, and Sherlock belonged to him. And that was perfect. Sherlock was perfect.

The detective leaned down and moaned into the crook of John's neck , kissing it and breathing against him. Panting. "I love you, John..."

"I know." John smiled and tilted his head slightly, planting a kiss in Sherlock's unruly dark curls. He pulled the man down against him and brushed his lips against Sherlock's cheek. "I love you, too."


End file.
